swung her up and held her in
his arms. "Mescal! Mescal!"

When he raised his face from the tumbling mass of her black hair, the
Bishop and his family had left the room.

"Listen, Mescal. Be calm. I'm safe. The rustlers are prisoners. One of
them released you from Holderness. Tell me which one?"

"I don't know," replied Mescal. "I've tried to think. I didn't see his
face; I can't remember his voice."

"Think! Think! He'll be hanged if you don't recall something to identify
him. He deserves a chance. Holderness's crowd are thieves, murderers.
But two were not all bad. That showed the night you were at Silver Cup.
I saved Nebraska--"

"Were you at Silver Cup? Jack!"

"Hush! don't interrupt me. We must save this man who saved you. Think!
Mescal! Think!"

"Oh! I can't. What--how shall I remember?"

"Something about him. Think of his coat, his sleeve. You must remember
something. Did you see his hands?"

"Yes, I did--when he was loosing the cords," said Mescal, eagerly.
"Long, strong fingers. I felt them too. He has a sharp rough wart on one
hand, I don't know which. He wears a leather wristband."

"That's enough!" Hare bounded out upon the garden walk and raced back
to the crowded square. The uneasy circle stirred and opened for him to
enter. He stumbled over a pile of lassoes which had not been there when
he left. The stony Mormons waited; the rustlers coughed and shifted
their feet. John Caldwell turned a gray face. Hare bent over the three
dead rustlers lying with Holderness, and after a moment of anxious
scrutiny he rose to confront the line of prisoners.

"Hold out your hands."

One by one they complied. The sixth rustler in the line, a tall fellow,
completely masked, refused to do as he was bidden. Twice Hare spoke. The
rustler twisted his bound hands under his coat.

"Let's see them," said Hare, quickly. He grasped the fellow's arm and
received a violent push that almost knocked him over. Grappling with the
rustler, he pulled up the bound hands, in spite of fierce resistance,
and there were the long fingers, the sharp wart, the laced wristband.
"Here's my man!" he said.

"No," hoarsely mumbled the rustler. The perspiration ran down his corded
neck; his breast heaved convulsively.

"You fool!" cried Hare, dumfounded and resentful. "I recognized you.
Would you rather hang than live? What's your secret?"

He snatched off the black mask. The Bishop's eldest son stood revealed.

"Good God!" cried Hare